


Marks of a Life Well-Lived

by Jinxed_Ink



Series: Marks of a Life Well-Lived [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Damen/Laurent - Freeform, Gen, Nicaise (Captive Prince) Lives, Pallas/Lazar - Freeform, canon-typical warnings apply, mentions of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 07:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15456090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxed_Ink/pseuds/Jinxed_Ink
Summary: Nicaise’s beauty does not survive into adulthood.There are freckles on his face, his shoulders, his arms, left-overs from long summers during which the sun on the white cliffs of Ios has scorched his skin. There is a scar, small but noticeable, on his chin, from the time he tripped over his own feet and fell, smearing his blood on the rocks. His nose was broken in a fight when he was seventeen, and has never quite set right.He grows tall, and lean and swift as a whip, muscles wiry and marks on his knuckles from years of sparring. Nothing is left of the boy he once was, terrified of a scraped knee because it would mar his looks and invite displeasure - he likes it better this way, he finds.





	Marks of a Life Well-Lived

Nicaise has been fourteen for a fortnight when he walks into Ios for the first time, clothing and flesh caked in filth from the road, his aching feet dragging over the stones of the streets, his empty stomach cramping with hunger. He’s alive, and that feels like a miracle. 

He spends some of his money on a bath and a change of clothes, never mind that he can ill afford to. He won’t get into the palace looking like an half-starved beggar and if this doesn’t work out, he’s dead anyway.

It takes him three tries to fasten the chiton. When he looks into the mirror the white of the fabric brings out the sickly paleness of his skin, the bruise-like shadows under his eyes. His cheekbones look sharp and fragile against the hollowed-out planes of his face.

Carefully, he pins a single sapphire earring to his ear - the last piece of jewelry he owns, the rest long since spent on food and lodgings. Once, it was part of a matched pair, but Nicaise lost its twin a long time ago and, in any case, they were far too heavy to ever be worn together. 

Laurent probably won’t recognize it, he reflects, Laurent probably put it at the bottom of his pack and forgot all about it. Forgot all about _him_. Nicaise wears it anyway. 

Calls it sentiment, or something like that.  

Nicaise has never been much for hope, but he has nothing else left now, as he turns road-weary feet up the steps of the palace. Hope that what little money he has left will be enough to see his message delivered. Hope that the scribe who penned his letter on coarse, uneven paper for three deniers did not double-cross him. Hope that Paschal remembers him, that Laurent will care. (Laurent won’t care. But he might just feel guilty. Might just feel that Nicaise is worth paying off rather than killing off, and Nicaise clings to that thought like a starving man to a crust of bread). 

Laurent does not think him worth paying off.

When Nicaise is ushered into Laurent’s chambers, the prince’s already pale face goes entirely bloodless. His lips part, for a moment, a complicated expression contorting his features, and then he makes a soft, wounded sound and crosses the room in three long strides to gather Nicaise in his arms.

Nicaise stands stiff against him for a moment, and then he does the unthinkable - he curls his fingers into the stiff brocade of Laurent’s jacket and starts sobbing into his shoulder. 

It’s not pretty - Nicaise’s always been a messy crier, and he knows that he must be ruining the fine fabric with his snot and his tears, but Laurent doesn’t seem to care; when Nicaise begins bawling, he just hauls him even closer and starts stroking his hair. He’s saying something, but Nicaise can’t make out the words over his own hiccups and hitched breathing. 

That night, Nicaise is given his own room in the palace, with a bed he shares with no one, and he is offered meal he did not have to pay for, be it with coin or with something else.

***

Nicaise is fifteen when he starts growing restless. It takes him a while to recognize the feeling; boredom has never been a luxury he could afford. These days, however, he no longer has to spend his time plotting to secure his next meal, and he doesn’t have to sell anything for the meat on his bones.

Wisdom would be to content himself with that and keep his peace, but Nicaise has never been any good at standing still. It’s what kept him from starving on the streets like his father, what kept him from living and dying on his back, with his legs spread, in a back-alley brothel like his mother. 

It’s what sent him flying from Arles one night, his pack weighted down with a treasure in trinkets and a stolen dagger at his hip, and kept him clear of the executioner’s axe.

His restlessness has always seen him through, and now it sends him circling the training rings like a wolf. He spends weeks just watching the Akielon guards spar, observing the play of muscles, the way their hands grip and struggle and slip on oiled skin. He does not understand any of it.

One day, one of the Akielons looks him straight in the eye and smiles, beckons him over. He has a nice, friendly smile, and nice, doe-like brown eyes and a nice, unassuming face. He speaks a little Veretian, and Nicaise speaks more than a little Akielon, and together, they make it work. 

His name is Pallas, he says, (Nicaise already knew this - he’s the one Lazar has been fucking) and he shows Nicaise the basic grips in Akielon wrestling, and knocks him on his back in the blink of an eye when they try their hand at a serious spar. He laughs, a bright, amused sound, no trace of mockery in it at all, as helps Nicaise up and adjusts his stance. 

The fight does not last any longer the second time around, but Nicaise sets his jaw against the humiliation. He has endured worse. “Again”, he demands.

***

Nicaise’s beauty does not survive into adulthood. There are freckles on his face, his shoulders, his arms, left-overs from long summers during which the sun on the white cliffs of Ios has scorched his skin. There is a scar, small but noticeable, on his chin, from the time he tripped over his own feet and fell, smearing his blood on the rocks. His nose was broken in a fight when he was seventeen, and has never quite set right.

He grows tall, and lean and swift as a whip, muscles wiry and marks on his knuckles from years of sparring. Nothing is left of the boy he once was, terrified of a scraped knee because it would mar his looks and invite displeasure - he likes it better this way, he finds. 

He still keeps the sapphire earring, still the only piece of jewelry he owns, shut tight in a plain wooden box in the Akielon style. He takes it out sometimes, holds it up to his face, and laughs at how absurd it looks against his features. 

Only his eyes have remained unchanged. They are still the deepest blue, wide and fringed with thick black lashes. They are still beautiful, and still his best feature - he can’t help but still take pride in them, just a little, just enough for Pallas to notice and tease him about it.

***

When he turns twenty-one, Nicaise stands in an line of assembled high-born youths of the newly re-formed Artesian Empire, his feet bare on the rough stone at the edges of the arena, his head tilted back to look at the twin thrones, high on their raised dais and shining with gilt and gold.

Untold glory awaits those who distinguish themselves today - the Kingsmeet, or a command in the army, or even a spot in the imperial guard, an endless string of days making a shield of themselves between the emperors and those who would do them harm.

Nicaise wants to win with burning desire, a fire licking beneath his sternum. 

When his name is called, he steps forward. He kneels before the thrones, presenting his weapon with outstretched hands, the trident gleaming in the sunlight, its edges dulled so he won’t maim his opponents. 

From his seat, Damianos quirks an eyebrow. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he says, dry, “considering your fondness for forks.”

Laurent conceals his laughter beneath a dainty cough, but his eyes meet Nicaise’s, shining with mirth. He waves a hand, carelessly, golden cuff catching and winking in the sun. “Well, go on, then,” he says. 

Nicaise stands, taking up his spot on the scorching sands.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find this (and my other writing) also on my Tumblr, [here](https://thestoriesthatweweave.tumblr.com/post/176345893266/marks-of-a-life-well-lived).


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